Les Mercenaires
by MeatPuppetMasterTheater
Summary: Mercenary captain Pip Bernadotte was living the dream. Enemies to kill, money to be made, and no rules of society to follow. Good times... Now, he has been called into service by family he didn't know he had. Will he rise to the occasion? Will he get the girl? And most importantly, Will he get paid? I'm telling you I'm an only child goddamnit!


**A note from the author.**

 **Howdy Fleshbags! This is MeatPuppetMaterTheater out with my first fic. This is an idea I've been kicking around in my head for about a month now and I figured I might as well put down a test chapter to see if I can get my ideas from my brain onto paper.** **I imagine that this first chapter will bring a few questions to the minds of those who read it. I'll try to answer as I am able. Hope you enjoy.**

 **Chapter I**

 **Mom?**

Pip had never known his mother. According to his grandfather she had left his father only a month after the start of their dalliance. From the stories his grandfather had told, his parents relationship had been a rocky, albeit passionate, one. Their arguments had been frequent followed by an inevitable bout of love making when the two forgave each other. Their "nights of passion" as his grandfather had called them, closet romantic that he was.

His grandfather had always been three sheets to the wind by the time he began speaking of times past and thus his judgement was not quite as sound it otherwise might've been. Pip gave a snort of exasperated fondness at the thought. What had his grand-père been thinking? Telling stories of steamy romance, and his grandfather had been able spin quite the sordid tale even drunk out of his mind, to an impressionable young boy. Pip grimaced at the images his thoughts conjured. Those same stories had produced the lurid images that he could have cheerfully lived without, but now seemed unable to forget. Still, at the time, he had been happy to have any sort of impression of the two who had given him life, although he thought all the kissing had been icky.

His mother's departure from his father's life had been sudden and, only a few months later, his father had died in a firefight. As a retired mercenary himself Pip's grandfather was saddened, but not surprised. Those who lived lives of violence tended to die violent deaths. What had surprised him however, was the discovery of a bundle on his front porch not two days following his son's funeral. In it there was a baby and attached was a note with one simple phrase, "His name is Pip."

Now being the hard man he was, one would think Pip's grandfather would've taken the baby to the nearest orphanage and left him there. However, according to the man himself, there had been a feeling deep in his gut that this tiny life in front of was kin. And, as Pip's grandfather had been fond of saying, a mercenary either trusted their gut or they died. Pip thought that it probably helped that he was the spitting image of his father except for his deep green eyes. These, his grandfather had said, came from his mother. Whatever the case, the gruff old soldier had taken Pip in and raised him.

It had not been an easy childhood. His grandfather was a harsh taskmaster at the best of times and he had his mind set on raising Pip so that upon reaching adulthood, he would be the next generation of the Bernadotte men to join the ranks of the loose brotherhood of mercenaries. His grandfather's training started when he was just four years old with the implementation of a routine of light exercise that would help build his stamina, but not cause his muscles to develop to an unhealthy level. As Pip grew older the older man began to push Pip to the breaking point nearly every day. However, he seemed to know when that point had been reached and he never went any further. Even with the harsh training, Pip had fond memories of the time he had spent with the old man.

School was his only reprieve from his grandfather's training, allowed only because the man ascribed to the policy that intelligence in combat was what won battles. Or to put as his grandfather had said, "A warrior's best weapon is his mind and you mon petit fils shall be well armed." While he was not brilliant, Pip showed an analytical mind that often was one or two steps ahead of others and he excelled at making quick judgement calls. This was a skill his grandfather cultivated. The old man knew that quick thinking could be the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

In the early years, Pip was estranged from his fellow children. They often bullied him for his lack of parents and the profession of his family. The children, in their innocent cruelty, did not really understand what they did. All they knew was that their parents looked down on and disparaged the Bernadotte's and, like children tend to do, they emulated their parents. Because of this, Pip had only a few friends. That didn't bother him much. As long as he wasn't friendless, and he had his grandpère, he wouldn't have to face the ridicule alone.

As time went on he developed a thick skin to the insults and gradually the bullying died down. Maybe this was because the bullies had grown up a little and no longer felt the need to be exactly as their parents were. Maybe they just lost interest because of the lack of reaction. Pip thought that the flashbang incident might've helped the process along though. He grinned at the memory. The look on Jean-Paul's face had been priceless. At that the grin turned a touch sadistic. His shocked screams had as well.

When Pip had graduated high school, he had promptly enlisted with the French Foreign Legion and served his five year tour. During those years he met Michel who he struck up an easy friendship with. Michel, as his name suggested, was a Frenchman and was often ribbed by the legionnaires who were not French because of his feminine sounding name. Those who did the ribbing however, were promptly and painfully introduced to his fists and most ceased the teasing quite promptly after that first meeting. During Pip's time in the Legion, his grandfather fell sick and eventually succumbed to the illness. Tuberculosis, an antibiotic resistant strain or so the doctors said, had done what hundreds of battles could not and laid the old man low. It was a small gathering of close friends that lowered the man into the ground. Pip couldn't be there. He was away in Somalia putting down terrorists. He didn't feel sorry for it though. He was sure the old man would've understood.

Near the end of his tour, he asked Michel to join him in forming a band of mercenaries once their time in the legion came to an end. Michel accepted easily enough, although they bickered like children over what to name the group. Looking back at it now, Pip found the whole argument quite amusing. The names Le Chien Excité and The Men in Camo may not have been the best names, but the two had been quite passionate in the defense of the name each had proposed. They had eventually settled on the name the Wild Geese after the Irishmen who had left the Emerald Isle after the Treaty of Limerick, eventually serving the French when they were reminded of the tale by a visit to the Louvre. Once they had left the Legion, they spent the next two years recruiting members for their little venture.

In the years that followed. The Wild Geese had made a name for themselves as a reliable, if slightly unprofessional, group of fighters. The group was hardened in the fires of many conflicts across the world. From the deserts of Afghanistan to the jungles of Columbia, the mercenaries fought. From terrorists to pirates to drug cartels, the Wild Geese took all comers without complaint so long as they were paid. Pip led the group from the front with Michel, red beret upon his head, at his side. Over time and through their many trials and tribulations the Geese became a tight knit group, relationships forged in the heat of battle. They always had each other's backs. Be it in a firefight with a group of Afghan Taliban members or a bar room brawl during their time in between contracts.

"Speaking of bar room brawls," Pip thought with some annoyance as he was drawn from his reminiscing by a sliding body which flew across the bar in front of him. Pip only just lifted the snifter of whiskey he had been nursing for the last hour in time to avoid the human projectile. The other three empty glasses were not so lucky and were knocked to the floor with a crash. That noise, however, was drowned out by the drunken roaring of the crowd currently engaged in melee behind Pip and the annoyed shouts of the barkeep as his glassware was destroyed. "Oi!", Pip shouted in annoyance, slamming back the last of his whiskey, "Which one of you fils de pute just pulled that crap?!" his voice audible even over the fight.

"Shorry Captain!", came a response from the far end of the bar. Pip turned to see Mercer, one of his newer sign-ons rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "I thought he'd stop short of ya.", the drunken slur to Mercer's voice gave Pip an idea of why Mercer had done what he had.

Pip, slightly mollified by the apology and the fact it was one of his own men, yelled back "Yeah well next time think harder ya dumbass!", as he turned away with a murmur of, "I need a fucking smoke." Matching action to words, he set the snifter back on the bar, slapped down a few bills to cover the drinks he had ordered, and made his way out of the bar, all the while dodging drunken blows from the brawlers. Before exiting, Pip took one last look around the bar. Most of his men were at the edges of the room slowly drinking their chosen beverages while watching the brawl, amusement lighting many an eye. Others were in the middle of the brawl themselves. Delighting in the thrill of a fight in which they didn't have to fear for their own lives and the lives of their friends. As he scanned the room he saw Michel sitting in a corner, also carefully keeping track of the men. He caught Michel's eye and nodded slightly. When Michel nodded back he let a slight smile slip and turned to the door. Michel would keep an eye on things for the few minutes Pip would be outside. He was dependable like that.

Out on the porch of the bar Pip looked onto the streets of Athens, quiet at this time in the morning. Pip sighed in relief. Finally, a little peace after all that noise. He pulled a cigarette from a carton in the inside pocket of his jacket. He held it in his mouth while the other hand brought his lighter, a nice silver piece which had been gifted to him by his grandfather, to the cigarette and lit it. Pocketing the lighter, Pip took a drag and exhaled slowly with another sigh. He hadn't had a moment of quiet for the last few days. This had been prior to the end of their deployment in Tunisia where the regime had been employing them to fight a group of rebels that had been gaining ground in recent years. After Pip had realized that their employer had no intent of paying them, he had snuck the Geese out of the country and into neighboring Libya. There he had negotiated them passage across the Mediterranean Sea aboard a cargo ship. Things had been a bit tense right up until they made landfall in Athens and even then he had had to deal with getting accommodations for his men. Now that everything was settled he could sit back and re…

"You know those things will kill you right?" Cursing the universe silently in his head, Pip turned to face the speaker. What he saw was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Initially he thought her hair was brown, but, as the light that shone from the bar's windows hit her, the color was revealed to be a deep burgundy almost the color of a fine red wine. Her eyes were green pools that drew the viewer into their depths and her face and body were, as Mary Poppins might say, practically perfect in every way. "Are you quite done?" her melodious voice was tinged with amusement as she asked the question. "If so there is something I'd like to talk to you about."

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?" the question was delivered flatly as Pip's instincts screamed at him not to trust this woman; that she was dangerous. "Why Pip," she responded with a bit of faux hurt in her voice, " I'm shocked and appalled you don't recognize me!" That she knew his name just set off even more alarm bells in his head. His instincts had gone from Defcon 4 straight to Defcon 2 and his hand began to creep slowly to the revolver holstered at his hip. What she said next, however, froze him instantly.

"In all seriousness though. How does a boy not recognize his own mother?!"

"...Quoi?"

 **Final Author's Note:**

 **So yeah that's about the size of it Short chapter, I know. All backstory and a cliffhanger too. Some people might be a touch annoyed with that, but hey; can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs can ya? Again, I'll try to answer questions on what all's going on in the fic as you have them. I'll put one thing down real quick that I know at least one person will ask, even if it's just in their heads. Who is Michel? Well that's easy, he's Pips second in command, the guy with the red beret, as I mentioned earlier. He's not named as far as I know so for the purposes of this story he has been dubbed Michel.**

 **I am currently working so updates will be slow. On top of that I'm not entirely sure where I want to go with this story just yet so yeah, even more slow.**

 **I'll include a list of the meanings of the new French words/phrases I use in the chapter at the end of every one. If you've forgotten the meaning, look it up or go back to preceding chapters.**

 **French Terms:**

 **Grandpère** \- Grandfather

 **Mon petit fils-** My Grandson

 **Le Chien Excité** \- The Excited (in this context meaning something akin to randy) Dogs

 **Fils de pute** \- Sons of bitches, whoresons, etc..

 **Quoi?** \- What?

 **That's just about everything. Reviews are appreciated. Throw me ideas if ya wanna. No guarantees I'll go with what you say though.**

 **This has been MeatPuppetMasterTheater and I bid all you lovely fleshbags a fond adieu.**


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